


Fibrous Obsessions

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comfort, Denial, Gen, Hair Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:56:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre has... hygiene problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fibrous Obsessions

When Combeferre saw it the first time, he was not worried. It was a normal process in the human body and therefore not worthy of dominating his thoughts. He attributed it to the stresses of the medical school and the rare fits of tossing and turning in his sleep. Drowned in the flurry of both his education and their revolutionary activities, the matter was soon forgotten.

When Combeferre saw it the second time, a seed of anxiety grew in him, but when Enjolras referred to the frown on his face, he grumbled something about a slight ache in his stomach. He declared to himself that as a doctor in training, such things should no longer baffle him. He was not remiss however in bidding Enjolras to sleep on his own bed for the days following.

"My dear Combeferre!" Courfeyrac had accosted him. "How is it that the mountains between your brows have not permanently set? You’ve had that scowl for days."

After a laugh, a drink, and an equally endearing insult, Combeferre had successfully eluded the question and left Courfeyrac to his own devices. There was an irritable itch on the patch where his spectacles chafed his skin, but he dared not scratch.

Soon it was Bahorel who was piqued, and when he demanded to know why Combeferre had taken to wearing brown coats instead of the usual black, he had divulged that he wanted to add a little colour to his wardrobe. Seeing his accuser unconvinced, he sought Bahorel’s advice on a good establishment for trousers. This was effective in steering the conversation.

"Do you suppose it’s a mistress?" Joly finally notioned. Bossuet, with all the air of an expert, readily agreed. "A new wardrobe, an eternal look of longing, and an aversion to share a bed with Enjolras — it must be a mistress.” They debated the matter for a good hour, and when Combeferre deemed his suffering enough, he emerged from his concealed seat behind the counter and laid a heavy hand on each of their shoulders. After seeing enough colour drain from their faces, he took one long look at Bossuet’s forehead, squinted his eyes accusingly, and told them to go home.

At home, Enjolras cramped the last of his books on the writing desk. Having made his own bed habitable again, he turned his attentions to Combeferre.

"Does your hair still worry you?"

From the bed, Combeferre paused in sweeping the persistent locks sticking to the mattress. He looked up to an amused Enjolras.

"The strands on your pillow did not escape me that morning."

For a moment, there was no reaction; there hardly ever was, but since it was Enjolras before him, Combeferre let his mouth curve into a resigned smile. “Of course you noticed,” he said as he brushed off the invisible threads from his shoulder. It had become a habit.

"It cannot be so horrible," Enjolras reassured him. "Bossuet has bore it happily."

"Our eagle bears everything happily," Combeferre countered. "And you are not one to talk of hair loss!"

As if sent by Providence, a draft entered the room and sent Enjolras’s hair swaying with the curtains. There was an indescribable expression on his face; in some angles, it could have been a pout. This improved Combeferre’s humour enough for him to break into a chuckle.

"I do suppose you’re right," he contemplated as his fingers moved to scratch his head. It had been a long time since he did so, and it was heavenly. "Only I had not expected… though it would be meaningless in future… of course."

At his apparent discomfiture, Enjolras released a sigh. He mustered enough knowledge from his collective listenings in the Musain to make a conclusion. “I heard that some of the gentler sex find it charming.”

The line of Combeferre’s brows shot from the rim of his spectacles. “And when were you ever concerned with that?”

After describing to him in full detail Prouvaire’s newfound fascination with Chenier, the severe state of Bossuet’s last coat, and Feuilly’s inhibitions when it came to drinking, Enjolras convinced Combeferre that he listened to all their wild drabble, no matter how irrelevant. It would not be surprising if he came across a hefty amount of advice every so often. Combeferre therefore pronounced him healthy.

"Would you like to share my bed again?"

Enjolras considered. “Will I wake in a sea of fur?”

It was Combeferre’s turn to pout.


End file.
